Similar to my research in Nepal last summer, my last day of field work would be jam-packed and not without the requisite amount of drama. In the morning I had to venture the furthest distance I would be required to travel for an interview while in Sri Lanka. I woke up at 7:30am, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the taxi line outside my hotel to make the trip out east to Battaramulla, where the main office of the Central Environmental Authority (Sri Lanka's equivalent of the United States' EPA) was located. Traffic caused us some delay, but even so I arrived at CEA HQ at 8:55am for a 9:15am meeting with Ms. Manuja Wimalasena, Director of the Legal Office. I was surprised at how easy it was to gain access to an official government building, especially in a country that has only recently emerged from a major conflict. My cab driver accidentally entered through the gated exit area, but the guards on duty were not perturbed. I was dropped off in front of the building, the cab facing the wrong direction, and headed inside.

I informed the desk attendant at the right side of the lobby that I had a meeting with Ms. Wimalasena, and, without any verification of my credentials or contacting my alleged interviewee, I was provided instructions on how to find the appropriate office. Strategically located fans hummed comically as their efforts failed to produce even the slightest respite from the oppressive heat resting defiantly inside the building. I navigated the stairs to the second floor to find a veritable maze of nearly identical glass-walled offices. Only single metal signs denoting the name of the exact office contained within the continuous-yet-partitioned offices offered any clue as to whether I was headed in the right direction. Eventually I asked someone roaming the halls, and they motioned that the Legal Office was down a long corridor and to the left. Finally I came upon the steel engraved placard displaying the magical words, "LEGAL OFFICE," and I pushed the door to enter the cordoned-off area. As usual I felt slightly embarrassed as I explained the reason for my sudden appearance. A woman led me to the Director's office, a cubicle within a cubicle, and I introduced myself, apologizing for arriving earlier than planned (the result of a residual insecurity from a time in college when I was thoroughly chastised for turning in a term paper early, causing the professor to misplace it and award me an undeserving "F"). From then on I conducted the interview, which was more like an information session a hopeful intern might attend and less like a focused discussion of environmental rights. Our meeting was interrupted a couple times for urgent work-related reasons, but this was to be expected in any major bureaucratic body. Nevertheless, it was useful to understand more about the existing legal framework pertinent to environmental issues and what kinds of legal problems the office has had to contend with. I showed myself out and left the building correctly through the exit this time, stepping in front of an SUV that was attempting to squeeze out of the narrow passage.

At this point in the morning I was positively starving. I walked along the road until I encountered a small village of food vendors serving various baked goods and beverages. It looked like an ad hoc settlement where construction workers might stop for fuel after putting in a couple hours of work. Eating virtually anything from a small roadside vendor was extremely risky for me given the quality of food preparation, the ripeness (read: rottenness) of the food, and the fact that I have food allergies. However, feeling famished and uncommonly adventurous, I surveyed the array of pastries that sat stacked behind a glass case and chose what I assumed to be the most innocuous delicacy- a bun with a pool of crystallized sugar gathered in the center, a kind of half-hearted donut. I pointed to the treat and asked for the price. "Twenty rupees," replied the middle-aged woman behind the counter. This amounts to roughly fifteen cents in US currency. I was quick to oblige. I handed the woman a 50 rupee note, which won me a gracious grin, and I flew away, voraciously consuming my newly purchased glistening gem of doughy goodness not even twenty feet later.

Eventually I found myself at the corner of an unfamiliar intersection, and it was unclear as to which way I should go. Suddenly, I remembered that I had forgotten to collect my questionnaire and media release forms from Ms. Wimalasena. Discouraged only because it meant that I would have to walk in the treacherous heat back the way I had just come, I begrudgingly retraced my steps and opened the gate to the entrance of the environmental compound where I explained my situation to the guards laying back in the security booth. Without much discussion they signaled that I could pass through. I crossed the threshold to the entrance, explained what had happened to the pleasant desk attendant, and started up the wooden staircase, where warm air hung like disappointment after losing the big game. Fortunately Ms. Wimalasena was still in her office, and she recognized right away why I had returned so soon after our interview. She told me that she didn't have my cell number or else she would have called. Happily I collected my lost items and left the building yet again. This time I let myself out of the gate. No one objected.

I made my way down the street until I stood in the midst of a pack of trishaws. I figured these tuk tuks would be more dependable than the ones by my hotel, as they lingered near the foreign employment office. They were not catering to a wealthy clientele. I located a driver willing to bring me to the National Museum and we sped west, the promise of an officially sanctioned cultural experience providing me with energy as my sugar rush began to fade.

Satisfied that I finally took a trishaw without being taken for a ride, I alighted at the museum, a palatial estate that reminded me of the White House. Although part of the exhibit was closed for renovations, I was more than happy to see what I could. I paid 250 LKR for my ticket and 250 LKR for a photography permit, and proceeded into the surprisingly dark and humid interior of the monument to Sri Lankan history.

The National Museum displayed artifacts dating from antiquity through the birth of the modern state system. Fantastic relics of stone, metal, and ivory illustrated the various cultural and religious influences which found their way into Sri Lanka's works of artistic expression. Portuguese, Dutch, Indian, and Chinese elements fused with Hindu and Buddhist religious inspiration. Busts of ornate Hindu gods stood alongside geometrically consistent depictions of Buddha. Aside from the sheer impressiveness of the exquisite detail featured in the cultural artifacts (the royal throne cast in gold and covered in red velvet is a clear stand out), I think the most unexpected attribute of the artwork was its deliberate attention to proper human proportions. I always found European art from the Medieval period bland and unrealistic, as infants appearing in frescoes (I found out that the very term "fresco" is actually a misnomer) were painted in proportions that had them look like miniature adults, for example. In Sri Lankan murals dating back to the 5th and 6th centuries, however, the human form was presented usually in 3/4ths view using physical representations that approached true-to-form anatomical correctness. While some artifacts seemed like classic manifestations of ancient deities (occasionally reminding me of Mayan statues), others, particularly a few of the paintings, seemed almost cartoonish given the liberal use of vibrant colors throughout. In short, the exhibit was exceptional not only for the incredible artisanship on display, but also for the variety of artistic media available for appreciation.

On my way back to my hotel I got seriously lost. I was walking around Beira Lake, past the cricket field, when I made a turn down Hudson, which, as it turned out, was the wrong street. From that point onward I meandered through ever-narrowing unpaved roads lined by conjoined ramshackle domiciles. Towels served as doors. Sacks of rice formed solid, if lumpy, furniture. Buckets functioned as sinks. It was my first time in the presence of housing that looked like it could have been featured in National Geographic Magazine, where Westerners could view dilapidated slums from the comfort of their heated toilet seats. As the roads constricted so too did my throat, the unfamiliar territory closing in on my confidence, marking my defeat at last. To my surprise, despite the alarming condition of these familial prison cells, everyone I came across was amiable and chipper. Although I was a White alien in a gray polo shirt, I instantly felt that my presence was received not with suspicion but celebration. Sparkling white smiles flashed as readily as sanguine salutations. Children unencumbered by clothing darted in and out of terraces like scrawny hummingbirds fluttering from one nectar-laden flower to the next (Note: I deliberately did not take any photographs of the people of these humble quarters because I have grown increasingly self-conscious about objectifying others and placing some kind of artificial distance between myself and them, especially when I'm the guest in a foreign land. As Julie Delpy remarked in the film "2 Days in Paris," at some point when observing the world through the lens of a camera, one inevitably becomes divorced from the reality they are seeking to capture. I very much wanted to maintain my ontological position as a constituent element of my current surroundings).

Eventually I came to an impasse. To make matters worse, my sugar bun was now a distant memory, and the beast of hunger began to growl antagonistically. Realizing that I must have mistakenly made my way into this backroad neighborhood, a woman politely directed me to walk through a narrow shaded corridor marked by a makeshift moat of stagnant wastewater. It seemed too closed in to be the right path and yet, sure enough, after sidling through a 100-yard stretch of slender pavement I emerged out onto a wider road. The blinding field of nearby hanging laundry seemed like comforting flags of my home country. I knew where I was. I walked toward Beira Lake and was back on the main road in no time.

What was remarkable about these squalid abodes was the amount of life that was carried out and contained within their limiting concrete walls. Whole families, including pets, shared these minute spaces, able to carry out every day tasks and chores that people pay others to do in houses 10 times their size. Their minimalist lifestyles elicited an acute sense of capitalist guilt, the psychological consequence resulting from a maldetermination of need manifested in an excess of consumption. These living situations highlight the importance of perspective when differentiating one's physical needs from one's culturally derived wants. In fact, just the other day I became engaged in a debate on Instagram with someone who posted a photo of a collection of basketball shoes juxtaposed with a photo of a large house. The message of the overall picture was that some dreams are legitimate because of the seriousness conferred by their prestige, whereas others are inferior because they focus on less objectively desirable goals. I argued that this photo missed the point entirely; that is, whether it is aiming to own lots of shoes or a McMansion, both are completely unnecessary and neither are laudable pursuits because they are driven by an emptiness borne of insecurity. The point is that the crowded shacks that I walked past during my high noon hunger daze suggested that perhaps happiness is not a human emotion best measured in square footage.

Minutes later I stood drenched in sweat at the entrance to Crescat Boulevard. I had arrived at Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar, and just as destiny and the kind hearts of slum dwellers enabled my triumphant return to my place of origin, I felt destiny compelled me to replenish my exhausted energy supply with another filling English breakfast. Little did I know at the time, I would need every bit of strength at my disposal for the final interview of my field work in Sri Lanka.

My seventh and final interview was scheduled for 5:30pm with Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya at the World Bank. I left the hotel at 5:00pm, confident that I could walk to my site in rush hour traffic faster than any trishaw, however honorable or nimble, could motor. Although the sun began to set, the temperature had not received the memo. Nevertheless, I forged ahead on the concrete, wasting no time and stopping for no one. At 5:15pm I came up to the location where my trusty Google maps had informed me I could find the World Bank office. The only problem was that the addresses on the nearby buildings were all wrong- they were in the hundreds and I was looking for 73-upon-5. To complicate matters, I asked several people nearby in a frantic attempt to find this building, but they either gave me the wrong directions or had no idea whatsoever where this supposed building could be found. I walked up and down 5th Lane three times, ignoring the security guard whom I had asked for directions when he saw me curiously speed pass his booth back and forth along the road. It was now 5:30pm. I did not want to be late for my interview and there was no way in hell I was going to miss it. Still, I could not find the DFCC building to save my life and I was officially late.

In a moment of resignation I called my interviewee's office and left an apologetic message, explaining that I simply could not find his office and I did not want to waste his time if he was not able to meet. However, I planned on heading up the road in the hopes that I might eventually find the correct building. Just as in the case of Nepal, I flirted with disappointment on my last day and the ugly feeling of failure crept over my forehead, displacing the feeling of sweat and curled hair with a warm and gut-wrenching sensation. I tried using Google maps again, and, to my surprise, the output of my search matched that of an initial query I had processed the day before but had dismissed in light of the most recent effort. The results made my blood boil. The World Bank office which I so desperately intended to find was about 1/4 mile from my hotel on the very same side of the street. I could have leisurely strolled out of my hotel at 5:20pm and turned up Galle Road to make my interview with time to spare. That image only served to vex me further and strengthen my resolve to get to the office. Maybe, just maybe, I could catch my interviewee as he was exiting the building for the day. It was worth a shot.

From then on, I bolted up the street, a man possessed by determination and unphased by his deteriorating physical appearance. Once I reached the American Embassy I started sprinting, holding my shoulder bag which contained my camera and digital recorder close so as to not lose the very equipment I would need for the interview. In bandaged heel and boat-shoed feet I ran like I could see the finish line at the Surf City Half Marathon. Finally I turned right down a recently paved but nondescript road, reaching what looked like a sleazy Italian restaurant or banquet hall in New Jersey. Panting and painted in the sweat of my dedication, I explained to the guards stationed outside who I was and why I was at the DFCC building. They granted me entrance and I filed into the elevator to reach the second floor. Once the elevator brought me up one level I exited enthusiastically and scanned the offices for signs of life, or, more importantly, Dr. Sumith Pilapitiya. I worked my way around a corner and became startled by what I found- Dr. Pilapitiya's office, door ajar, lights on, with a bag on the ground and glasses resting beside his computer. The air conditioning was blaring an unmerciful tune. It rang like music in my ears. Clearly, he was still here. I searched the other offices for someone who could shed light on this mystery and confirm my suspicions. I found one such gentleman, who informed me that Dr. Pilapitiya was in a meeting down the hall. We walked down the hall and opened the door to the meeting in progress. Not having any idea what my interviewee looked like, I cast a wave into the general vicinity of the conference room. One gray-haired man stood up and made his way to the door. He told me that if I was willing to wait, he could see me after his meeting. In the meantime, I could sit in his office.

Overjoyed, I retreated to Dr. Pilapitiya's office to cool down and calm my nerves. I waited an hour, but it was worth it. I didn't give up. I didn't fail. Persistence reigned supreme. Sometimes, the wheel that squeaks the loudest does get the grease.

It was Sunday and a national religious holiday. While national museums and government offices were closed, souvenir shops largely remained open for business, which afforded me the opportunity to pick up some traditional Sri Lankan goods before I left the country on Tuesday. My first stop was The Cricket Shop, a one-stop sporting goods store for all things cricket. Having failed in my previous attempt to secure both white and red cricket balls, this was truly my last chance for redemption. Determined to right the ship for the sake of my friend Robert, who had requested the purchase, I zoomed down Galle Road and made a left turn at St. Anthony's Mawartha. Half expecting the place to be closed for the holiday, The Cricket Shop was brimming with excitement as a team of young cricketers from the UK tried on pads and swung cricket bats of varying sizes and weights. A teenaged blonde girl, likely the girlfriend of one of the enthused patrons, sat on a bench in the middle of the store looking dejected, unamused. I searched for the section where I could find cricket balls and, wouldn't you know it, there was a beautiful display shelf where both white and red cricket balls all sat ensconced in perfect concave dimples like sporty Fabergé eggs. I purchased the elusive white ball (the cost was 1050 LKR but they only charged me 1000 LKR, probably because I was so well behaved in comparison to the rambunctious team running amok in the tiny space) and left the scene, which was gradually devolving into a madhouse as older cricket players began to pour in. I was clearly out of my element.

En route to my next destination, I stopped off at The Commons, another facially unassuming coffee shop identified by Western signage. It was right across the street from the Ladies' College, where men stared like wild dogs into the gate opening up to the campus, anxiously awaiting the exit of their daughters, sisters, and girlfriends. I ordered an iced coffee, as if that would have any lasting effect on my internal temperature, and checked over the impressively eclectic menu. With 20 different types of specialty burgers alone, I knew I would be back.

I continued down Sir Marcus Fernando Mawatha, also known as Alfred Crescent, a road that bowed underneath the expanse of government property that housed the National Museum, University of the Visual and Performing Arts, and Nelum Pokuna Mahinda Rajapaksa Theatre. Upon reaching the penultimate perpendicular intersection of the smiling road, I turned right onto Independence Avenue. After bearing right on Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, about 1/4 mile later I arrived at a place that was rated by Lonely Planet as the #1 shopping attraction and #1 thing to do in Sri Lanka- Lakpahana. If you are looking for local artwork and handicrafts, your trip to Sri Lanka would not be complete without a visit to Lakpahana. Located in two main buildings, this small campus of local artistry offers seemingly everything under the blazing sun. Here you can purchase or simply admire carefully detailed and vibrantly colored works such as masks, batik clothing and wall hangings, wood carved elephants, jewelry, drums, clay pottery, and woven goods of all sizes. Because of the holiday, I practically had the place to myself. Needless to say, I try to support local art when possible, so I did not walk away empty handed.

I started back up Philip Gunewardena Mawatha, and then north on Independence Avenue. My stomach was calling for my attention, and I promised to heed its constant nagging by returning to The Commons for some midday sustenance. The restaurant was considerably busier than before, likely because school had let out and students filed in for lunch. When I came up to the cash register I ordered the Sesame Chicken Burger and a mango juice. The cashier urged me to reconsider, as apparently the stock of mango juice was "kind of rotten." I appreciated his candor, and opted for the chocolate milkshake instead (I can't explain my recent inclination to order milkshakes other than to say that it's so hot all the time I simply want a cold beverage whatever time of day or night it may be, and fruit juices are not always available for the reason stated above). I waited about 40 minutes to receive my meal. Diabetics must have it rough in Sri Lanka if my experiences with customer service are any indication. Had I been drowning, I would have died three times over while I waited for someone to pay attention to my frantic flailing. Fortunately, this was less of a life-or-death situation and more of a hunger game. Politely I inquired about the status of my meal. My chocolate shake, which had been delivered to me only a few minutes after placing my order, stood empty at the edge of my table, an ancient relic of a time when I was in lactose love and the burger of my dreams seemed only moments away from resting in my swollen, trembling hands. Fairly soon after my inquiry the waiter arrived at my small square of solitude with the burger king and its sad regiment of scattered fries. The taste of the burger was remarkable. The description on the placard accurately told of the burger's inner secrets- ginger, soy, and onions were all present and accounted for in generous capacity. The Asian slaw resting orderly atop the patty added a fresh and crispy countervailing force to the surprisingly savory sensation conveyed by the chicken burger. Overall the symphony sounded superb even if the musicians had arrived late to the orchestra. No longer a prisoner to my hunger, I opened the door to the outside world, which spared no time in reminding me it had not similarly cooled off, and returned to my hotel.

On my way back to the Cinnamon Grand I decided to keep an eye out for members of Sri Lanka's Environmental Protection Unit, a division of the police charged with the enforcement of environmental laws (although one interviewee referred to the EPU as a glorified neighborhood watch for illegal dumping activities). I had seen one such green vested officer earlier in the day, and I hoped that my luck might continue. At one point on my walk, I turned into an alley where I could see the ocean and its twinkling white caps seemingly a stone's throw away. No sooner had I hypnotically migrated toward the sea than I was confronted, to my delight, by two officers clad in moss green EPU vests. Excited and in full social science researcher mode, I asked if I could take a photo of the two gentlemen. I handed them my UC Irvine business card and attempted to explain the nature of my research without appearing like an awestruck tourist. If anything, I seemed to have confused them more. Eventually, and with some pleading, I convinced the men to let me take one photo. Pleased that serendipity or perhaps karma had dealt me a good hand, I continued up Galle Road in a state of geeky elation.

That night, César had extended an invitation for me to join him for Easter dinner at the home of Dr. Jayadeva Uyangoda, a constitutional scholar and Professor of Political Science at the University of Colombo. I happily agreed. I left my hotel by cab and arrived at Dr. Uyangoda's house around 7:30pm. There I reunited with César, and met Dr. Uyangoda, his wife, two young professional couples, and a little boy. One of the guests, Mrs. Dinesha Samararatne, had been a lawyer and Fulbright Scholar at Harvard Law, where she earned her LL.M. She is currently a lecturer in the Faculty of Law at the University of Colombo and a doctoral student working on her dissertation. Together our party chatted about primary schooling in Sri Lanka, eating habits in Spain, weather in Florida, and social contract theory. One couple told an interesting story illustrative of the inadequacy of the Sri Lankan legal system. Basically, their neighbors became embroiled in a legal battle over a parcel of land. The issue remained unresolved in the court system for 15 years. Then, one day a judgment was rendered that was favorable to their neighbors. Dissatisfied with outcome, the opposing side murdered the entire family of victors the very next day. Justice here in Sri Lanka has a flavor unlike any other place I have visited thus far.

Thousands of miles away from my place of birth, I found myself strangely at home in the company of otherwise complete strangers and their mild mannered dogs. The food itself was also wonderful, a spread of regional dishes fit for an Easter Sunday meal ("My mom will be happy to know I had at least one home cooked meal while I was out here," I quipped.). Upon having the various items explained to me, I assured the hostess that the pork chops would be no problem for this non-observant Jew, as I believe that the kosher laws essentially functioned as the first food safety laws, now rendered obsolete by the advent of curing and refrigeration. Outside the house on a post just beyond the doorway hung a tile that read "Shalom" in both English and Hebrew. Surely the Angel of Death would have seen fit to pass over this house back in Biblical times. For dessert we raced to finish bowls of green mint ice cream before the glacial chunks turned to emerald soup. Dinesha, her husband, and her adorable son bade us all good evening, and soon César and I decided it was our turn to depart. Our hostess's first couple attempts to call a taxi failed to produce, so I suggested Kangaroo Cabs, which I had used when leaving Dr. Dhanapala's home in the thunder and rain several days ago. Sure enough, we were able to reserve a taxi. After a week in Sri Lanka I was now suggesting which cabs to take. The taxi, a Toyota Prius which César and I shared, dropped my new friend off at his apartment and then continued on into the agonizing abyss of the spring Sri Lankan night.

Today I had only one interview scheduled mainly because it was Good Friday, a national holiday in Sri Lanka. I had arranged to meet with Ravi Algama, an environmental lawyer, at his home right around the corner from my hotel for an interview at 8:30am. Foolishly I thought that at that time of the morning it might be cooler outside, but my baseless forecast did not come to fruition and so I sloshed through the side street saunas on my short walk to Mr. Algama's abode. Once I arrived, I was received with great enthusiasm and hospitality. Mr. Algama brought me tea with milk dressed in matching white cup and saucer. Then he presented me with a gift- a gold-plated betel leaf, which was intended to be used as an ashtray (the real betel leaf itself is often used in conjunction with tobacco), but of course it could be utilized for other purposes as well. I suggested it would be a fine place to drop my house keys when I enter my apartment. Mr. Algama informed me that we would have until 10:30am to complete the interview because an issue came up with the choir at his church, and he was being called into active duty for Good Friday musical leadership. I let him know that, based on my recent experiences, the interview would not take anywhere near that long, so he should be fine. Before the interview formally began with the official pressing of the universal red recording button on my digital audio recorder, we talked for a few minutes about where I was from and my religious background (once you tell someone you're Jewish, unless they are a missionary, they are likely to accept that as a valid excuse for not attending church). Eventually this introductory chat came to a close, and the interview began. Again the interview was quite succinct, but the information I obtained was useful, and I felt that I was trending ever closer to reaching the point of theoretical saturation; that is, different people at different times were continuing to provide me with the same kind of answers for the questions I was asking. For a social science researcher this is a positive development, for it suggests that a potential explanation for a phenomenon being studied holds some intersubjectivity- a collective, if tacit, understanding about an issue. I thanked Mr. Algama for the gift and we made tentative plans to talk again on a more informal basis before I left to return to the US.

I exited the premises and landed back on the residential street from whence I came in order to retrace my steps. I stopped to take a couple photographs of Beira Lake and noticed some people playing cricket, the most popular sport in Sri Lanka (apparently the national sport is volleyball, but I haven't seen anyone playing volleyball in empty industrial lots like I have with cricket). I noticed that while a recreational match was underway in a nearby field, the real entertainment was supplied by a little boy, an aspiring batsman, who was taking serious swings at lobbed pitches. When one bowler would tire, he would demand that someone else take his place and resume throwing to him. The dedication possessed by the little cricketer was sweet and inspiring, especially because it appeared to come from within. He pursued his craft with tremendous persistence without any prodding from his mother, who sat nearby manning the snack station. I managed to take a few photos of the little boy in action and then I resumed my journey back to my hotel.

Because it was still early and all I had been eating in the mornings were meat pastries and bagels, I felt that I owed it to myself to have at least one real, substantial breakfast while I was out here. I recalled having passed a sign at the entryway to the Crescat Boulevard shopping mall advertising a "traditional English breakfast" for 900 LKR (~$7 USD) at a place called Sugar Bistro and Wine Bar. Having traveled to the UK I had some idea of what this breakfast might entail, so with thoughts of meat, jam, and beans floating through my mind like so many little heart bubbles I entered Sugar and took a seat by the window. After I ordered my English breakfast (as if there were any doubt as to what I would get), an old British couple sat down at the table adjacent to mine. It was about 10am, and the woman at the table was gushing over the prospect of ordering cinnamon and honey ice cream. But first, she made some important observations and articulated them with a certain seriousness to her husband. "This table is rather wobbly, don't you think? It seems like every table we sit at is wobbly. I think they must be made wobbly on purpose!" Immediately I hoped that my twilight years would not devolve into a running commentary on the mundane. The presence of British vacationers here is unmistakeable- the accent, the sense of humor, the pallid skin palette. Sri Lanka is a former British colony, and seeing the English here makes me wonder if they ever give pause to consider that their continued presence in the country is tantamount to a kind of de facto form of neocolonialism. At one time, the Brits set up plantations in Sri Lanka and staffed them with Tamil slaves from India. Now they come here on holiday expecting a certain level of treatment by the heirs of that misfortune. This made me wonder whether Americans will visit Iraq 50 years from now and similary act as if nothing illegitimate and devastating was ever perpetrated by them. While I was busy pondering the subterranean subtext of post-colonial leisure travel, the first portion of my breakfast arrived- an exquisitely plated assortment of fruit. Back in 2007 I found out I was allergic to pomegranates (or at least pomegranate juice), and so I'm particularly vigilant about consuming unknown fruits. On the plate before me rested three colorful treats- a disc of pineapple, a wedge of watermelon, and a slice of some kind of neon orange fruit I did not recognize. Boldly going where I believed I had never gone before, I ate the pineapple, then the watermelon, and finally started to chip away at the new world of sweet radiance staking a claim as the last fruit standing. After taking a bite, I was certain that I had never eaten this fruit before. It tasted like 85% fruit, 15% rottenness. It had skin like a melon, but it was thin enough to consume. With each subsequent bite I wondered why anyone would ever eat this particular fruit when so many superior alternatives existed. I just hoped I didn't break into hives as the fruit sought to exact revenge on me for my caustic review (later I discovered that this "mysterious" fruit was, in fact, papaya. With this quandary resolved, I can honestly say that the only kind of papaya I desire is Gray's). The rest of my breakfast was as characteristically British as my painfully boring table neighbors, but infinitely more satisfying. I finished it in a period of time that some might think impolite, but I had lots of blog writing to do. I settled my bill and returned to my hotel only a few yards away, full of eggs, beans, potatoes, toast, jam, bacon, juice, and coffee, and thoughts that needed to be penned (or, in my case, pushed).

The rest of the day I spent blogging poolside until my battery begged me to be rejuvenated and I retired to my room to charge my iPad and recharge myself. Several hours and two posts later, I continued my English culinary streak with a dinner downstairs at Cheers, a British pub. I will say this: the ethical complexities of colonialism notwithstanding, Sri Lankans sure know how to bake a mean shepherd's pie.